On this day as I grow older it seems I have betrayed my sky my skin many a times. It’s the same sky, years back we thought had raised itself to such a fluid happiness. Invariably I look for rust on such corrugated skies; collateral suns grieve today the fall of innocence on a Delhi street, a harsh rejoinder to believing that truth is not always sacrosanct. Envious of coloured threads partaking many a horizon, everyday shadows subtly search for corners hiding a shrub or even a tree. Like our many loves replete with the unseen, skins craved in turgid rivers. I hear your voice, your undulant whispers, in shame of unreserved partings. In love we screamed curtailing the benevolence, in love we cried assumptions of the unheard, in love we dared once rolling the streets of old Delhi. With age came sun burnt pores, the mind stops against a reasoned wall, hopes flee a rising dusk. On that day a sudden sky could no longer catch an everyday sun. I could no longer retrieve your words in a long shared memory. In a treasonous river somebody quietly executed Afzal Guru, In a burning shack somebody tries unclothing Kobad Ghandy. Francisco de Goya lives again.
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